stopped. The woman looked up; her eyes brightened. The V.A.D. had a
soldier with her--her lover, she could see that at a glance. He had
brought an atmosphere of romance and passion into the laburnum-lit
garden.
Margaret introduced Michael, who was perfectly at his ease on such an
occasion.
"My friend has arrived from the Front," she said. "We are going to be
married the day after to-morrow . . ." she paused, ". . . that is to
say, if I can get leave from my hospital for a week."
The woman looked up at the handsome couple. "Well, what a surprise!"
she said, as she stared hard at Michael. "Who would ever have thought
that you were going to be married so soon? You never even told me you
were engaged! You were very sly." She smiled happily.
Margaret laughed at her astonished expression. "I mustn't stop to tell
you about it now," she said. "My time is up--I ought to be back in ten
minutes to my cups and saucers. I just wanted you to shake hands with
the man I'm going to marry."
The woman rose from her seat. As she did so, the old scarlet coat
which she had been unpicking fell to her feet. She glanced at her
hands, as much as to say, "They aren't very clean." Michael held out
his, ignoring her hesitation, and gave her slender, artist's fingers a
hearty shake and warm grasp.
The old actress's emotions were kindled; poverty had not dimmed the
romance of her world.
"You'll do, sir," she said. "You'll do--you'll do for the sweetest and
truest lady that lives in London town."
"We have your blessing, then?" he said gaily. "And you'll look after
her when I'm at the Front--promise me that?"
"That I will, sir. But it's she who looks after me, and more than me."
She cast her eyes round the strange neighbourhood. "Looks after us and
helps us in a hundred different ways." But she was speaking to
Michael's retreating figure, for Margaret and her lover had left her.
As she watched his swinging strides, she murmured to herself, "He'll
do for her--there's no mistaking his kind. He'll do for her." Her
thoughts flew to familiar scenes. "There was something in his voice
which reminded me of . . ." she recalled a celebrated actor. "He would
make a fine Hamlet, a heavenborn Hamlet."
As they left the gardens Margaret said, "I have a feeling, Mike, that
someone has been watching us ever since we came into the gardens--have
you?"
"No," Michael said. "I hadn't any eyes or ears for anything but you."
Margaret smiled. "I felt it," she said, "rather than saw it. But,
just this minute, didn't you see that dark figure?"
"No. Anyhow, let them watch--I don't care. Everybody's doing it."
His arm was round her.
Meg laughed, but not so whole-heartedly, and when she was saying
good-bye to him at the hospital, she said, nervously and anxiously,
"There's that black figure again--she's just passed us. I saw her
yesterday--she watched me go in after my hours on."
In spite of that fact, Margaret kissed her Tommy quite openly and
flagrantly and in the broad daylight. She had promised to walk with
him again on the next afternoon during her hours off, and to marry him
the day after, if he got the licence and she got her leave.
When they had parted she said to herself, "Ours will be a war-wedding
with a vengeance! When I went out for my two hours this afternoon I
was absolutely free, not even engaged. Now," she blushed beautifully,
"I am the bride-elect of a Tommy home on leave for a fortnight!"
After her day's work was done, she tried to find the busy matron. When
she found her, she went straight to the point--it was Margaret's way.
"I want to get married the day after to-morrow," she said. "Could you
get someone to take my place? Can you let me go?"
"For good, do you mean?" The matron was scarcely surprised. These
sudden marriages were all a part of her day's work, the flower and the
passion of war.
Margaret's eyes brightened. "If you could get a temporary V.A.D., I
think I'd like to come back when he's gone."
The older woman looked at her. "I think you'd better take a rest.
You've been at this dull job for a long time now. Don't you think you
would be better for it?"
"Perhaps you are right," Margaret said. "I really haven't had time to
consider details--I'd only got as far as wanting the week while he is
at home, to get married in."
"Take it, by all means," the matron said. "I've a good long
waiting-list on my books of voluntary helpers to choose from." She
paused. "I don't mean that it will be easy to replace you, Miss
Lampton--I wish all my workers gave me as little trouble as you have
done."
"Oh, but it's been such ordinary work! Anyone could have done it as
well."
"I've not been a hospital nurse for twenty years, Miss Lampton, for
nothing. You can comfort yourself with the fact that a good worker
always makes herself felt in whatever capacity she is in. No sentiment
or romance finds its way into an area-pantry, though there's plenty of
it in the wards." She smiled. "But in spite of that, your romance
seems to have progressed. I wish you every happiness and the best of
luck."
Luck nowadays, Margaret knew, meant but one thing--the life of her
husband. "Thank you," she said. "I've loved being of use. I've
really been grateful for the work--it's been what I needed."
"I think I can get a V.A.D. to take your place to-morrow morning--you
will want all your time. If you will look in at your usual hour, you
will hear if we have got one. But take my advice, Miss Lampton," the
matron said, as she turned to leave the astonished Margaret, "if you
are going to nurse, go in for a thorough hospital training. You'd make
a good nurse . . ." she paused, ". . . that is to say, if you are free
to do it when your husband is at the Front. Anyhow, think it over. It
seems to me a pity that you should be content to remain a V.A.D. when
you may be wanted for much more serious work later on."
When she had said good-bye, Margaret fled to the telephone. She had so
much to do and arrange that she had to go from one thing to another as
fast as she could. She rang up the rooms in Clarges Street where she
knew that Hadassah Ireton was going to stay. She ought to have arrived
that afternoon. When at last she got on to the right number, she was
answered by the husband of the landlady, an ex-butler, and an admirable
_maître de cuisine_.
"Has Mrs. Ireton arrived yet?" Margaret asked.
"Yes, she arrived at five o'clock. Who shall I say speaking?"
"Ask her if she can speak to Miss Lampton, please, for a few minutes.
Will you tell her that it is very urgent?"
The next minute Margaret heard Hadassah's voice.
"Hallo! Miss Lampton, is that you?"
"Yes," Margaret said. "But, please, not Miss Lampton!"
"Well, Margaret--I always think of you as Margaret. How nice of you to
ring me up and welcome me to London!"
"Hadassah," Margaret said breathlessly; her heart was beating with her
news; she spoke rather loudly, "I rang you up to tell you that I'm
going to be married the day after tomorrow!"
Hadassah heard Margaret sigh even through the telephone. It was a sigh
of pent-up emotion, an expression of relief.
Margaret waited. She knew that she had taken Hadassah so completely by
surprise that she had no answer ready.
"Margaret!" she said at last, in amazement, "who to?"
Margaret detected, or fancied she did, a little coldness in her
question. There was certainly not the pleased ring of congratulation
which she had expected in her words.
"Why, to Michael Amory, of course! Who else could it be?" Margaret's
happy laugh crackled in Hadassah's ears.
"Oh, my dear, I'm so glad! What a wonderful surprise! Is he in
London? When did he turn up?"
"He has been to the Front--as a Tommy, but he's got his commission in
the same regiment. I only met him to-day--he's just got back. I feel
too bewildered to think; I scarcely know what I am saying."
"Is this the first time that you've seen him since you parted in
Egypt?" Hadassah's voice expressed both amusement and eager curiosity.
"Yes, to speak to. We met in the train. Some months ago I saw him at
a railway-station in the North. He was passing through, and I was
there, but we had no opportunity of speaking to each other." In the
same breathless voice she said, "Freddy would approve. I know what you
are thinking, but it's all right--he's as keen as Freddy about the war,
and there never was anything wrong."
"I'm so awfully glad. You know I never doubted him."
"He arrived in England the day before war was declared by us. He tried
to find me, but he couldn't, and so he just gave himself up to the war.
He lost himself in it--you know his way! He thought that Freddy and I
would approve. He was always worthy of me, Hadassah, but now I'm so
proud of him. He would have joined up in any case, but he thought that
in doing his bit he would atone for his weakness about Millicent. It
was only his old method of letting things slide--he couldn't get rid of
her, but he was absolutely loyal to me."
"I understand," Hadassah said. "But I admit that it was difficult for
Freddy to look at it in that light."
"It's so hard to explain over the 'phone," Margaret said. "And indeed,
it isn't what he has told me so much--it's just what he makes me feel."
"I know, dear. I feel it's all right--I always felt it was."
"He has been absolutely true, Hadassah. Freddy must know that now.
And you know, I can afford to marry." Her voice lost its buoyancy.
"Yes, I know, dear. I saw your brother's will."
"And you approve, Hadassah? It seems a shame not to grasp this little
bit of happiness." She paused, for above her practical words came the
assurance of Michael's safety; the words of the message almost came to
her lips.
"I quite approve. In these awful days, even a fortnight of happiness
is a wonderful thing. Use your own judgment, Margaret--it's been
unerring so far. Take this joy right to your heart."
"Will you and your husband witness our marriage? I want to telegraph
to Aunt Anna--may I say that I am being married from your house? We
won't bother you--is it awful cheek asking you?"
"Why, my dear, of course you can come here to-morrow, as early as ever
you like, and we'll go into all the details, and fix up everything
quite nicely. With telephones and money and London at our backs, you
will be astonished at what a nice little _déjeuner_ we shall have ready
for you." Hadassah laughed. "Money has its uses, my dear, in spite of
all your Mike's oblivion of the fact."
"Oh, you are too kind! Won't it be nice--a little _déjeuner à quatre_
in your rooms? Your husband is with you? I forgot to ask."
"Yes, he's here. He'll stand by your Michael. Now, all you've got to
do is to look after your own concerns--get your things together and
send them here. I'll have them packed for you and do all the rest."
"You angel!" Margaret said. "Oh, don't cut us off!" she cried to the
girl at the exchange, for a buzzing sound filled her ears. "Are you
there? Can you hear? I won't take much on my honeymoon," she said,
but her words did not reach Hadassah; no answer came back to her. They
had been cut off. She quickly put the receiver back on its hook and
hurried off to do the next thing which suggested itself as being the
most important--writing a short list of the things which she would have
to buy the next day, and sending a telegram to her Aunt Anna.
[1] Hermann Fernau: _The Coming Democracy_.
CHAPTER III
The next day, when Margaret met Michael in the garden square, she was
not in her V.A.D.'s uniform. She told him that she was now her own
mistress, so much so that she had that morning almost completed the
purchase of her trousseau, and that she was free to stay out as long as
she liked.
"But I want you," she said, "to return with me now to Clarges Street,
to the Iretons. They are in town, and Hadassah says we can be married
from their rooms to-morrow."
"They are the kindest people in the world," he said. "I felt sure you
were making friends with Hadassah while I was in the desert. I often
comforted myself with the fact that she would understand the whole
situation and help you."
"She's a brick!" Margaret said. "She has been your ardent champion all
the time."
They signalled to a taxi-cab to drive them to Clarges Street. It was
necessary to do everything as quickly as they could; there was no time
for leisurely walking or discussion.
Suddenly Margaret said, "Look! Quick, Mike, there! I saw that black
figure again. She was sitting in the gardens when I arrived. She
never used to be here--I feel convinced that she is following us. I
believe one of these taxies is waiting for her." Her eyes indicated
two taxis, which were waiting outside the gardens.
"Why do you think so?" Michael said. "What can any human being want
with us? Why should our movements be interesting to any one but our
two selves?" He laughed. "By Jove, they are interesting to us,
though, aren't they?"
His eyes spoke of the morrow.
Margaret laughed, too. Michael's high spirits allowed her no time for
reflection. He was carrying her off her feet in his old magnetic way.
If he had only beckoned, she would have followed him to the ends of the
earth; wings would have carried her, the air would have borne her. The
dull realities of her life in London had vanished as if they had never
been. The black figure, which had stepped into a cab and followed
them, was forgotten.
* * * * * *
For something like half an hour Michael sat talking with Hadassah and
Margaret. He had so much to tell them that he succeeded in telling
them nothing connectedly or completely. He began a hundred different
things and left most of them halfway through, to plunge headlong into
another and entirely different subject. The things he wanted to say
were tumbling over each other in his mind. The bewildering idea that
he was going to be married the next day sent all his thoughts reeling.
Margaret was not the sort of girl to worry over a lot of superficial
clothes for a ten days' honeymoon. What she needed she had got
together in a couple of hours at Harrod's and one or two good shops in
the West End.
They had made up their minds to spend their brief period of married
life together at Glastonbury. It was not too far from London and
Michael had once stayed in the historical old inn in that quiet city of
Arthurian romance. In Egypt he had inspired Margaret with a desire to
see Glastonbury in the spring time, when the maythorns were in bloom
and the luscious meadows gay with flowers.
Like all soldiers, Michael was very silent upon the subject of his own
personal experiences at the Front, although at intervals he would
suddenly burst out with some dramatic incident in which he had taken
part.
When Hadassah congratulated him on being offered a commission, he
laughingly said, "Oh, I must accept it. It isn't fair to shirk it,
though I'd rather remain as I am."
Margaret's heart stood still. She knew what he meant; she was not
ignorant of the appalling death-rate of officers.
"You mean," Hadassah said, "that----"
She got no further, for Michael interrupted her. "I mean that if I'm
capable of leading the men I ought to do it, but I dread the
responsibility. That's why I never tried for a commission--I. didn't
feel confident. But as the deaths amongst the officers are much
greater than among the men, I can't remain a Tommy, can I?" He pulled
his notebook out of his pocket. "Read that," he said. "That's the
sort of thing that proves whether a man can lead or not."
Margaret and Hadassah read the newspaper cutting. It had been quoted
from the _Petit Journal_.
"The British High Command relies more and more on the value of the
individual soldier, and in this we see one of the main factors which
will mean German defeat. Take the case of the heroism of a sergeant
who, seeing his officer seriously wounded, himself assumed command of
his company and led them victoriously to the third line. There he fell
in his turn, but one of the men immediately took his place and
completed the conquest of the objective. It is thanks to such acts
that . . . has been seized, crossed and left behind."
When Hadassah and Margaret looked up, they met Michael's eyes. They
were looking into the things beyond, things very far from Clarges
Street.
"That was my sergeant," he said, "the finest fellow that ever wore
shoe-leather!"
"And the Tommy," Hadassah said, "has he been promoted?"
Michael's eyes dropped; his tanned skin flushed slightly.
"Of course he'll have to take a commission if it's offered to him. He
can't very well refuse. He has proved his ability to lead, poor chap!
I expect he'd rather remain as he was. I know I would--it's a terrible
responsibility, inspiring your men as well as teaching them, but one
can't shelter oneself while others face greater risks."
Hadassah's quick brain read the truth, while Margaret merely lost
herself in visualizing the dangers which Michael would so soon have to
face. The twelve days would be gone so soon that they were scarcely
worth counting.
From the war their sketchy talk returned again to Michael's experiences
in the desert. He told them briefly about the saint, omitting the
nature of his illness. He spoke so naturally and unguardedly about
Millicent, and of his annoyance at her appearance and at her
persistence in remaining, that if there had been any lingering doubt in
Hadassah's mind upon the subject of his absolute loyalty to Margaret,
it was completely dispersed.
When he was hurriedly telling them about the meeting of the saint and
all about his knowledge of the hidden treasure, and how completely it
tallied with the African's prophecies, he produced a tiny parcel from
his pocket-book. He handed it to Margaret, who felt as if she had been
listening to the last chapter of a long story from _The Arabian Nights_.
The little packet was made up of many folds of tissue-paper. With
nervous fingers Margaret unwrapped it.
When the last piece was discarded and she saw that uncut jewel lying
against the palm of her hand, she gave a cry of delight mixed with
apprehension. Its beauty was unique, its colour as indescribable as
the crimson of an afterglow in the Valley.
She looked almost pitifully at Michael. She wished that the world was
a little less strange; some of the humdrum of her pantry-maid's
existence would be almost welcome.
"The saint carried it in his ear," he said. "He took it from
Akhnaton's treasure."
"Have you had it with you at the Front all this time?" Hadassah said.
Margaret's emotion touched her.
"Yes. But now it is for you, Meg. I will have it made into anything
you like, so that you can always wear it. It will be my
wedding-present, a jewel of Akhnaton."
"No, no!" Margaret said quickly. "You must take it, it belongs to you.
You must always carry it about with you, Mike--it is your talisman."
She stopped, for Michael had closed her fingers over the stone.
"But I want you to have it," he said. "Let it be my
wedding-gift--there is no time for the buying of presents."
"No," Margaret said. "Don't urge me, Mike. I shan't like it.
Hadassah, don't you agree with me?--he must never part with it!" She
smiled. "I should be terribly afraid if you did, I should think your
luck had deserted you. Dearest, do take it--I believe Akhnaton meant
you to keep it."
While she spoke she was longing to tell him of the hand which had
written, of her message. The words almost passed her lips, but again
she refrained, she obeyed her super-senses. She was convinced that
Michael, when his blood was up, ran terrible risks, that he was
reckless to the verge of folly. She had heard a letter read in the
hospital which had been written to a mother about her son. His Colonel
had said, "There are some men who will storm hell, there are others who
will follow, and there are some who will lag behind. Your son belongs
to the first of the three. What he needs to learn is caution and the
value in this war of officers as able as himself." Margaret knew that
Michael's rash nature needed no encouragement.
Hadassah championed Margaret. "I think you should keep it," she said
to Michael, "and give it to Margaret after the war."
They all laughed, not unmirthfully, and yet not happily. "After the
war!" they echoed in one voice. "Oh, that wonderful 'after'!"
"That promised land," Michael said. "Never mind--it's coming. The
labour and travail of the war will bring forth Liberty. The pains of
childbirth are soon forgotten--mothers know how soon, when the infant
is at their breast."
Hadassah and Margaret looked at one another. Their eyes said many
things; Margaret's were full of pride because Hadassah was hearing from
his own lips that Michael was as whole-heartedly in the war as even
Freddy could have desired.
She was still fingering and gazing at the wonderful stone. It seemed
scarcely more strange to her that it had actually once belonged to the
first king who had abhorred war, had once formed a part of his great
royal treasury, than the fact that it had played its part in the
mystical drama of her life in Egypt. As Michael talked, she questioned
herself dreamily. Which was real--her humdrum pantry-maid existence in
London, with her dreary walks through darkened streets, with now and
then a Zeppelin scare to make her lonely bedroom seem more lonely? Or
her life in the Valley, surrounded by the unearthly light of the Theban
hills, her life of intellectual excitement and strange intimacy with
things and people which the world had forgotten for thousands of years?
Michael felt her abstraction. He put his hand on the top of hers,
which held the jewel, and pressed it.
"Come back," he said, laughing. "We're in Clarges Street, and we're
going to be married to-morrow."
Meg looked up with startled eyes. "Are we?" she said.
"My dear, practical mystic, we are." He caught her round the waist and
looked at Hadassah as he spoke. "You'll get her ready, won't you?"
She laughed. "Well, if you really mean it, I think we must all be up
and doing."
"If!" Michael cried. "With this in my pocket, I should rather think I
do mean it!" He brandished the special licence in the air. "Do you
know what this means, Meg? It's your death-warrant. Are you resigned?
Have you anything to confess? You've not been married to anyone else
while I was away?"
Margaret shook her head. He had brought laughter back to her eyes.
Just at that moment the ex-butler entered the room. As they all turned
to look at him, he said:
"A person has called to see Miss Lampton."
"Who is it?" Margaret said. Her thoughts flew to her dressmaker, who
was hurriedly making a light frock, bought ready-made, the proper
length for her; in all other respects it fitted her.
"I don't know, miss. She has a box in her arms."
"Oh, I'll go," Margaret said. "I won't be long."
"Then, while you're gone, I'll make use of my time," Michael said as he
rose to his feet. "I'll be back in ten minutes." He looked into
Margaret's eyes. "Don't waste any time on dressmakers, Meg! Wear any
old things,--you always look delightful."
"Catch me wasting time!" Margaret said. Her eyes assured him of her
words. "Come upstairs for me in ten minutes--I'll be ready."
* * * * * *
A minute or two later Margaret returned to the sitting-room. Michael
had left it. She was glad.
"Hadassah," she said, "listen. The most extraordinary thing has
happened. Millicent Mervill is up in the drawing-room." Margaret was
trembling with anger and nervousness.
"What? That woman here? How has she found you, how dare she come to
see you?" Hadassah's voice was indignant, furious; her eyes flashed.
Margaret hurriedly explained to her how for the last two days she had
felt that someone was following her, a dark figure, indistinctly
dressed in black.
"She watched me in the square this morning. With her old cunning, she
managed to get in by bringing some corset-boxes with her. Smith
thought she had come to try something on. Isn't it like her?"
"Have you seen her?"
"No, not yet. She gave this note to Smith to give to me; he thought it
was just a list of the things she had brought. I knew her handwriting
the moment I saw it. Please read it."
Hadassah read the letter. It was very short.
"Dear Miss Lampton,
"If you will let me see you, I will tell you something which you ought
to know. Please don't refuse. What I know may greatly help Mr. Amory.
"I only heard the other day that he never discovered the treasure. It
is about that I want to see you.
"Yours,
"MILLICENT MERVILL."
When Hadassah had finished reading the note, she raised her eyes; they
met Margaret's.
"You had better see her." Hadassah spoke quickly.
"Yes, I must, I suppose. I only wanted to know if you would mind--it
is your house. I think it's such impertinence."
"Of course not. But what can she have to tell you?"
"I don't know, but whatever it is, I do wish she hadn't come."
Margaret sighed. "We were all so happy, and she is associated with
everything that is hateful."
"Would you like me to come with you?"
"No, no." Margaret shook her head. "I am always best alone, but I
dread the interview."
She paused for a moment or two before leaving the room. She was
building up her courage, trying to subdue her nervousness. As she went
out, Hadassah's eyes followed her.
"Poor girl!" she said to herself. "She has gone through so much. I
thought she was in for a little time of peace and happiness. Poor
Margaret!" She sighed. "And what is there still before her?"
Hadassah's eyes looked into the future, "with this cruel, cruel war
only beginning, for we are really just getting into it!"
She had been preparing to write some letters relating to Margaret's
affairs, but for a moment or two she did not take up her pen. A little
of the truth of what did actually happen to Michael on the battlefields
of Flanders swam before her eyes; it was just the things which were
happening and have happened to England's brave boys and men during
these three wonderful years. The war was still in its infancy, but
even then the vices of Germany were as old as her race and as terrible.
She pictured the truth--Michael's charmed life, his reckless courage,
his magnetic power over his men. She foresaw it all. His temperament
foretold it, his absolute belief in the triumph of righteousness.
While Hadassah was thinking these things, and thanking God in her heart
that her husband, by reason of his special qualifications, had at once
been placed in a post of great responsibility and one far removed from
the danger-zone, Margaret had reached the drawing-room. She paused for
a moment outside the door; she needed all her self-control.
As she entered the room, and before she had closed the door behind her,
a slight figure, so shapelessly enveloped in black and closely-veiled
that she could not distinguish any individuality, turned from the
window, which opened into a small glass recess full of ferns and
flowers.
Margaret did not hold out her hand; she could not. Nor did Millicent
Mervill; she stood before Margaret, her head bent and her hands clasped
in front of her, a slight bundle of drooping black, as mysterious as
any veiled Egyptian woman.
"You have something to tell me?" Margaret said. In spite of her anger,
the humility of the fragile figure brought a suggestion of pity into
her voice. The radiant beauty whom she had steeled her nerves to meet
had given place to this meek, formless penitent. "Please put up your
veil--I can't see you." She knew that she could not trust the woman's
words; she wished to watch her eyes while she spoke.
"I am wearing it," Millicent said, "because I can't bear you to look at
me, to see how changed I am. Please let me keep it down, while I tell
you all I know about Mr. Amory and the treasure."
"What has happened?" Margaret said. Millicent's voice was agonized.
"I had smallpox in Alexandria--it has left me hideous. Soon after I
last saw you I sickened with it. I was very, very ill."
"Smallpox!" There was genuine sympathy in Margaret's voice. "Are you
really disfigured? How dreadful that nowadays you should be!"
"Yes," Millicent said, lifelessly. "I have nothing left to live for
now. My looks are gone. I was very ignorantly nursed; they were kind
people, but hopelessly ignorant."
"Perhaps your looks will come back--give yourself time." Even as
Margaret spoke, she wondered how she found it possible to talk to the
woman in the way she was doing. Only five minutes ago she had hated
her, hated her so intensely that she had had to exercise great control
over her passions so that she should not lose her temper in her
presence. Now she felt a sincere pity for her, the poor creature.
Margaret's subconscious womanhood knew the reason. It was because she
could afford, to be sorry for her, now that all rivalry between them
was dead.
"I didn't come to tell you about myself," Millicent said. "It is
nothing to you--you must be glad." She wrung her hands more tightly.
"You are saying in your heart at this moment that I deserve it. So I
do. I see things clearly now--I do deserve it. I brought it all on
myself, everything. But I have suffered, you don't know how I have
suffered."
"Sit down," Margaret said quietly, "and tell me all about it."
"No, no. You are only speaking like this because you feel you ought
to, because I am now a thing to pity. You really hate me. I came to
tell you that I never reached the hills, I never saw the hidden
treasure, I never tried to find it." She paused. "And that your lover
was never mine. He never desired any woman but you--he scorned me,
ignored my advances."
"I know that," Margaret said hotly. A fire had kindled her calm eyes;
it quickened her spirit.
"But it is none the less my duty to tell you. Your lover is too fine,
too loyal--he won't stoop to tell you how I tempted him. He wouldn't
blacken even _my_ name. He has too much respect for womanhood."
"Then why tell me?" Margaret said. "I don't want to hear it. All that
is past. We are going to be married tomorrow--Michael is home from the
Front. We are perfectly happy--don't recall it all."
A cry rang through the room. Its tone of envy and passion convinced
Margaret that even in the worst human beings there is the divine spark.
It actually hurt her that her own joy should mean this agony to another
woman.
"You are going to be married," Millicent said, "to the finest lover and
the truest gentleman I have ever known, or ever shall know, the finest
in the world, I think."
"Yes," Margaret said. "He is all that, and more--at least, to me."
"Much more," Millicent said, "much more. And will you tell him that I
never reached the hills, that I am not guilty of that one meanness?"
"Then who did?" Margaret said quickly.
"Oh, then you thought I did? You thought I robbed him of his
discovery? Does he think so, too?" Her voice shook. Her curious
sense of honour scorned the idea.
"No, no," Margaret said. Her love of truth made her speak frankly.
"He wouldn't believe it. He is still convinced that you never went to
the hills, that you are innocent."
"But you believed it?"
"Yes," Margaret's voice was stern. "Yes, I believed it for a time."
"I have nothing worth lying for now," Millicent said bitterly; "so what
I tell you is perfectly true. I never reached the hills; I was too
great a coward. I fled away in the night, as fast as I could, back to
civilization."
"Then who anticipated Michael's discovery? It's absurd to assume that
someone who knew nothing of his theory should have discovered it at the
very same time, almost. Do you expect me to believe that?"
"My dragoman told me that one of my men absconded. He left me on the
same night as I left Michael's camp. He must have discovered it; he
must have heard the saint telling Michael all about it." She paused.
"You know the whole story, don't you? All about the saint, and how his
illness turned out to be smallpox?" She shuddered at the very mention
of the saint.
"No," Margaret said. "I haven't heard about the smallpox. Was that
how you got it?"
"Indirectly, yes, but it was my own fault. When I heard that he had
got it, I stole away in the night, I left Michael to face it alone."
She paused.
Margaret held her tongue. There was something so horrible about
smallpox that, in spite of the woman's cowardly behaviour, she felt
some sympathy for her.
"He had begged me to go before the saint turned up. I wouldn't. When
the saint appeared he forgot almost everything else, and so for one
whole day I remained confident in the belief that he had taken my
presence for granted. And then," she shuddered, "he came to tell me
that the holy man had smallpox."
"And you forgot your love?" Margaret said.
"It was swallowed up in fear, in anger. I was so furious at Michael's
rash generosity. I had warned him that the man might be suffering from
some contagious malady, but I never dreamed of smallpox."
"It was horrible!" Margaret said. "And Michael has never said a word
about it."
"His charity is divine," Millicent said. "It is Christ-like, if you
like."
"It is true charity, for it is love, love for everything which God has
created."
"He is so happy that he can afford to love almost everything and
everyone."
"He is happy because he loves them."
"I don't believe he has ever heard of hell," Millicent said. "His
religion's all heaven and beauty and love."
"Hell!" exclaimed Margaret. "But surely," she paused, "surely we're
not primitives, we don't need the fear of such impossible cruelties to
keep us from doing wrong? His great saint, or reformer, Akhnaton, had
no hell in his religion, and he lived, as you know, centuries before
David. Even Akhnaton realized that human beings create their own
hells. The other hell, of fire and brimstone, which terrorized the
ignorant people into obedience and order, belongs to the same category
as the crocodile god and the wicked cat-goddess Pasht, of Egypt. It
was necessary in its day."
"You and Michael live on such a high plane!"
"Oh no, we don't. You know Michael is very human--that is why he is so
understanding, so forgiving."
"He will never forgive me--that would be expecting too much. But I had
to come and tell you all that I know about his treasure. I have only
just heard--I saw it in the Egyptian monthly Archaeological
Report--that Michael never had the glory of discovering the Akhnaton
chambers in the hills."
"You didn't know that when I saw you in Cairo?"
"No, I never dreamed of it. If you had only told me that he hadn't, I
should have explained, I should have told you about the man who
absconded."
Margaret looked at her searchingly, but she could learn nothing more
than the voice told her, for Millicent's veil was still covering her
disfigured face.
"I never wished to rob him of the honour of the discovery. If I had
known when I saw you, I should have cleared my name, at least, of that
contemptible deed."
Margaret blushed. "I couldn't tell you," she said. "I was too
unhappy, too angry. I didn't want you to know of our disappointment.
I pretended that I had heard from Michael."
"You led me to suppose that he had discovered it."
"I know," Margaret said. "I didn't wish to add to your satisfaction by
telling you of his disappointment. I was convinced that you knew, and
that you had slipped off to the hills." She paused. "We were bluffing
each other."
"I was incubating smallpox. I was wearing a blouse and skirt which had
been packed with the clothes I wore in the desert. Probably it had
come in touch with some infected thing."
"Were you very bad?" Margaret said. "Where have you been all this
time?"
Millicent shivered. "I was just going to sail for England, but I was
too ill when I reached Alexandria to go on board the boat--I had to
stay behind. I have been hiding myself from the world ever since.
Yes, I was dreadfully ill, and now. . . ." Her voice broke. "You
don't know what I feel when I look at myself--my own face makes me
sick."
"I am so sorry," Margaret said. "You were so beautiful, such a
wonderful colour!"
"How kind of you to say so!" Millicent's voice left no doubt of her
feeling of shame, although Margaret's nobility was beyond her
understanding; it humbled her. "I came to you because I wanted to do
what I can to undo what I have done. If Michael had known that my
servant anticipated his discovery, it might have given him a clue as to
where the treasure has gone. You do believe now that I never saw the
jewels? I never dreamed of robbing him!" She paused. "In my poor way
I loved him. I couldn't have done that--not that."
"And yet you were so horribly cruel! You knew a great deal about men.
Michael is only human, and he is so ready to believe the best of
everyone."
"Yes, I know. But I suppose I was born bad, born with feelings you
don't understand. Michael did his best to help me; he tried to awaken
something higher in me. I suppose you won't believe it, but he has--he
has helped me; I am not quite what I was. While I was ill, when I
thought I was dying, all that he had ever said to me came back to me
with a new meaning. I determined that if I got well I would tell you
everything--how wonderful his love for you is, how strong he can
be--and it is not the strength of a man who does not feel."
"Oh, I know it," Margaret said. Her voice was resentful.
"But please let me tell you, even if you do know it. It is only right
to Michael--I must exonerate him, even if you resent hearing me speak
of his love for you. Let me make a clean breast of it, show you how
ignorant he was of my plans for meeting him. He never was more
surprised in his life."
"I didn't mean to resent it, but there are some things we never need
telling, things which are better left unsaid. Michael needs no telling
that you never stole the jewels, for instance, that you never tried to
reach the hills."
"Stole the jewels! No, I never stole them. You thought that?" Horror
was in Millicent's voice. "You thought I stole them for my personal
use? To wear them?"
"It would not have been so cruel as to steal my lover, would it?"
"It would have been less difficult."
"You tried--oh, how you tried to steal him! How could--you?" A
revulsion of feeling hardened Margaret. Her eyes showed it. She was
visualizing Millicent in all her former beauty. Even without beauty,
she knew how strongly her vitality would appeal to men. Despondent, in
her drooping black shawls, Millicent was keenly alive still. Margaret
had always felt her vitality; she knew that men felt it. It stirred
them to conquest; it invited contest.
Millicent answered her truthfully. "Because I am bad, not good, and I
loved him with the only kind of love I know. It swept aside all
scruples. You can't judge--try to believe that--you can't begin to
judge. I lived for conquest and men's admiration, and now I have lost
both."
Margaret felt humbled to the dust. Her judgment had been so crude, so
narrow. She realized that the woman before her left her far behind in
the matter of vitality, passion and self-criticism. Her energy and
vitality demanded an outlet, an object.
"Don't feel like that," she said gently. "Your looks will come back.
Do let me see your face. It is early days yet--the marks will
disappear, grow fainter. It is only one year--give it time, forget all
about it in hard work, and while you are working. Nature will be
working too."
"No, no!" Millicent cried. "Never! I am going to fly from my
friends--I am going to hide myself."
Margaret had attempted to raise her thick veil, but Millicent refused
to let her. Instead, she threw another thickness of it over her face.
Her pride could not stand even Margaret's pity and comforting words.
"I am humbled enough as it is," she said. "Don't do that."
"I didn't want to humble you," Margaret said. "I only thought, and I
do still think, that you are exaggerating the change in your
appearance. One sees every little thing about oneself so clearly. I
know how a wee spot seems like a Vesuvius when it is on one's nose.
With smallpox the marks do get more and more invisible."
"No, my looks will never come back," Millicent said miserably. "And
for a woman like me, when her looks are gone, what is there left?"
"Work," Margaret said. "The war will make you forget all about
personal things--it will, really. Life is different now. If you will
only take up some war-work--and I know you will, for every able-bodied
woman in England is working at something; every superfluous woman has
become a thing of value--life will be completely changed. There is
only one idea, one aim for us all--to win the war. You must do your
bit. It is just our 'bit' that keeps us sane, for without it we should
have time to think. We women must not think, we must work."
"But what could I do?"
"Almost anything," Margaret said. "You know you could--you are so
clever."
"Don't flatter, please," Millicent said. "How can you be so forgiving?"
"I suppose because I'm so happy. As soon as ever you can," Margaret
said, "take up some work which necessitates using all your brain, all
your energy. You will become so interested in what you are doing that
you will forget your troubles. I had no time to grieve over mine when
I was working in the hospital. At night I was so tired out that I went
to sleep as soon as my head was on the pillow. The atmosphere of work,
the awfulness of this war, makes personal things seem very trivial--one
grows ashamed of them."
"You are trying to give me hope," Millicent said. "It is so big and
kind of you, but honestly, I only came here to tell you about your
lover, not to talk about my hideous self. What does it matter what I
do? You were always a worker--I was not."
"Well, you have told me about Michael, and now I can at least try to
help you. I have seen the effect of almost a year of the war on the
idle women of England. It is wonderful! And we used to be called
superfluous!" Margaret laughed proudly.
"You believe me? You know that I am not lying? that I never reached
the hills? that I never knew that Michael had not discovered the
treasure?" Millicent had gone back to the original object of her
visit. What Margaret had advised seemed to her impossible.
As she said the last words, the door opened and Michael entered the
room. He had heard Millicent's voice. His eyes were fixed on
Margaret. The tableau created by his unexpected entrance was tense,
painful.
Millicent turned her head away and hid her face in her hands. Her
first thought was that he must not see her face. She flung herself
down on the sofa.
Margaret became deadly pale, but remained motionless. Michael looked
from her to Millicent with an expression of horrified surprise on his
face. He had expected to see her in all her perfection of toilet and
looks, her shining head, the "golden lady," instead of which a bundle
of crêpe, a mere armful, something soft and black, lay face downwards
on the sofa before him.
"What are you doing here?" he said sternly. "Haven't we seen the last
of you yet?"
Margaret put up her hands as if to ward off his words. Her own
happiness had made her feel more pity than anger for the miserable
woman, who for probably the first time in her life was trying to act
honourably and courageously. The security of love made her wondrous
kind.
"What has she come for?" Michael demanded. But for his sunburn, his
face would have been as white as Margaret's own. The sight of
Millicent's cowering figure brought back to him, with the quickness of
light, the evening in the desert when he had flung her from him in his
agony of temptation.
"She came to give us some information, Mike. Tell him, Millicent, why
you have come."
Millicent took no notice of Margaret's words. She was crouching on the
sofa, her face still buried in her hands.
"No, no," she moaned, when Margaret again urged her to speak. "I only
wanted to tell you. Ask him to go away--do, please, beg him to go. If
he wants you I will disappear and never come back again. I have said
all I have to say."
"I am going to stay here," Michael said, "until I hear what you came to
say. Was it necessary to come?" He looked to Margaret for his answer.
"It was better," Margaret said. "She never reached the hills, she
never saw the treasure."
Michael started. "Go on," he said. "That is not all--she need not
have come to tell us that. I never accused her; I never believed it.
I thought that after all she did do, she would have had shame enough to
stay away."
Millicent's body quivered. His words lashed her.
"One of her servants ran away--he left her the same night as she left
your camp," Margaret said. Again Michael saw the black figure shiver
as Margaret spoke of her cowardly act. The very mention of it brought
to both their eyes a vivid picture of the surroundings which had
witnessed their last meeting. Millicent knew that Michael was seeing
it as clearly as though they had been standing together under the
golden stars, the tents dotted about on the pale night sands. She
could hear the sick man reciting _suras_ from the Koran in sonorous
tones.
"And she thinks he found the treasure?" Michael said the words
absently, as though his mind was occupied with distant visions.
"Yes--he was a likely character to do the deed."
"Does she know anything about him--where he went to?"
"No, Mike, but I do." Margaret spoke gently. "Millicent has been very
ill. She only heard yesterday that the Government had anticipated your
discovery. She came to try and help you. She is in trouble."
Margaret's voice told Michael more than her words.
"She scarcely deserves your pity," he said. "Only her own heart knows
how she has tricked us both . . . there are some things one cannot
forgive . . . Millicent knows."
The black figure slipped from the couch to the floor. "Look, I will
kneel at your Margaret's feet," she said in tones of abject shame.
"Tell her everything. Tell her what a beast she has been kind to. She
ought to know." She raised her head. "I think I shall enjoy the
agony--anything but this living death."
She pressed her hands on Margaret's feet. "I am far worse than you
knew! You are not made like me, you won't even understand if he tells
you the things I did."
"I don't wish to speak of it to Margaret," Michael said. "Get up. I
have seen your penitence once too often to believe in it now--get up."
"Oh," Millicent moaned, "I know, I know! You think this is just
another bit of the old Millicent. It isn't--it is true."
"Get up," Margaret said kindly. "I was only trying to be kind because
. . . well, perhaps it is because I am so happy myself that I can
afford to forgive you. Don't kneel like that . . . I hate to see you.
Michael knows how little I deserve it . . . I have hated you with all
my heart and soul, I have longed for my revenge."
"My God!" Michael said quickly, "I hate to see the little coward near
you! How dared you come? Get up!" he said again. "And clear out! I
thought we had finished with you for ever!"
Millicent dragged herself to her feet. She stood before him, a
slender, nun-like figure; one of the black shawls which enveloped her
had fallen to the floor.
"Go on, say all you feel--I deserve it, every word of it! I left you
to your fate when you were in danger, I fled from the camp with but one
idea in my head--my own safety, my desire to get as far as I could from
the infection of smallpox. I carried the hateful disease with me; I am
so disfigured that you must never see me. Never!" Her words ended in
a low cry of self-pity.
"My God!" Michael said. "Are you speaking the truth! Did you get
smallpox?" He knew that the blame was partly his.
"Yes, but don't look at me. I can't bear it. Anything but that, oh
not that!" Michael had stooped to raise her a veil.
His eyes met Margaret's. "Poor soul!" he said. "Poor little soul!"
"Yes, fate has punished me," Millicent said. "You can do no more."
Michael groaned. "We have not talked of it all yet, Margaret," he said
miserably, "the horror of the smallpox."
"Millicent has told me about it, Michael." She tried to smile. "It is
a thing of the past. What good will talking do? We are happy again."
Millicent turned to Michael. "I have told her a very little," she
said. "And now I have something which I must tell you. When I saw her
in Cairo I told her that I had been with you, I told her that you would
write to me, I inferred that you and I were lovers."
Michael bent his head. He was innocent of any deed of unfaithfulness,
but what of his desires? What of the night when Margaret's presence
had saved him? He wondered if she was conscious of the part she had
played in his renunciation.
"And you still trusted me?" Michael's words were so full of gratitude
and wonder that Margaret's veins were flooded with happiness. How
greatly he had been tempted!
"I remembered my promise. More than once it seemed to me that I
succeeded in being very near you."
Her eyes questioned him. He understood; his eyes answered her.
"I told her that I had been with you," Millicent said, "but not for how
long. She never dreamed that my coming was quite unknown to you, that
I was with you for so short a time, that you hated my presence in the
camp. How well she knew you!"
Margaret turned to Michael. "Yes, I knew him," she said. "Thank God,
I knew him! We learnt to know each other in the Valley, and I think I
realized the situation better than you thought I did."
"But I must tell you, I must show you even more than you dream of how
true and loyal he has been."
"No, no, please don't," Margaret said. "Michael has told me all I want
to know." She was sorry for Michael's embarrassment; he writhed under
the whole thing.
Millicent paid no attention to her words. She repeated the story for
Margaret's benefit. Michael turned away impatiently. He had meant to
tell Margaret all the details of his life in the desert when they were
married and alone together.
"As I told you," Millicent said, "I met him in the desert. I had found
out where he was going to. He was furiously angry . . . he wanted me
to go back. I stayed against his wishes. The saint turning up the
same day as I did made him forget me. I often tried to win him from
you . . . and I thought I was succeeding. The only reason he didn't
turn me out of the camp was because of my equipment and food--they were
good for the holy man, who was ill. He was sickening with the
smallpox, only we didn't know it. Michael took him into his camp. I
told you about that. We didn't know what was the matter with him, but
Michael behaved like an angel to the lunatic. When he discovered that
he had smallpox, I implored him to leave him. When he wouldn't, I
fled. That very night I left him alone, even though I had told him
that I loved him--I had offered myself to him. I took all my luxuries
with me. I was mad . . . furiously angry. He had taken the sick man
in against all my entreaties; he had scorned my love. The next morning
Hassan told me that one of my men had deserted, left our camp at dawn."
"Stop, that's enough!" Michael cried. "Stop it!" Every word had
lashed his nerves and brought back to his memory his own struggles, his
own weakness.
"I fled," Millicent went on, not heeding his interruption. "I spent
some weeks in Upper Egypt. I thought I had escaped the horrible
disease. . . . I thought Hassan had taken every precaution. He sent
some of my boxes straight on to Cairo; I opened them the night I saw
you. They must have carried the infection--that is how I got smallpox.
It lay in wait for me." She paused, breathless, and then went on
excitedly: "I know nothing about the treasure. I am absolutely
innocent in that one respect. I can tell you nothing more, nothing."
As Millicent ceased speaking, Michael took up her story.
"Margaret," he said, "some days after she left us the saint died. When
he was buried, we moved on." As he spoke, he visualized the desert
burial. "We journeyed to the hills. On our way we passed through a
subterranean village--a terrible place, of flies and filth! The
_Omdeh_ of the village, a fine old gentleman, told us of the growing
unrest among the desert tribes--German work, of course; we are seeing
the fruit of it now. I paid no heed to him; I felt too ill, too tired.
I only cared about reaching the hills. When we did reach them, we
found that a camp was already established. Information had been given
to the Government." He heaved a deep sigh. "The thing was out of my
hands. I suppose the shock finished me for the time being, for when I
left the excavation-camp I became ill, so ill that Abdul had to take me
as quickly as he could to the _Omdeh's_ house near the subterranean
village. I stayed there until late on in May." He stopped abruptly.
"The rest won't bear speaking about. What made things so much worse,
Meg, was thinking about what you would be suffering, what Freddy would
be saying." His eyes sought Margaret's. "It is best to forget, it is
wiser to think of tomorrow."
"Yes, let us forget all about it," Margaret said. Michael's expression
frightened her. As a soldier he had enough to bear without raking up
what was past.
"Abdul became as dear to me as a brother," Michael said quietly. "His
devotion was wonderful! We are not of the same faith"--he was speaking
to himself--"but our God is the same God, our love for Him the same.
Abdul knew that."
"And your illness?" Millicent said. "Was it smallpox?"
"No, no--none of my camp caught it. It was enteric fever. I suppose I
was worn out, both mentally and physically. The disappointment about
the treasure was the last straw, it was so cruel. I am able to accept
it now, it doesn't hurt me any longer. The war has done that; the war
is like concentrated time--it obliterates and wipes out, and even
heals."
"But you discovered it, Michael! You were the real discoverer. If it
hadn't been for you, and for your special knowledge, the man who stole
it, who gave the information, would never have found it. And, after
all, as Michael Ireton says, that is the main point of interest."
Margaret's eyes glowed with pride. "And haven't you heard the sequel
to that tragedy?--the finding of some ancient jewels which the thief
must have dropped in the desert, not so very far from the
hill-chambers?"
As Michael had not heard that the gems had been found, Margaret told
him the story which Hadassah had written to her.
"They prove, Mike, what after all is to us the most important fact in
the whole affair--that you were right, that all the information given
you by the seer was correct."
Margaret did not include her vision of Akhnaton in Millicent's
presence; it was always a sacred subject between them.
"That is what Abdul said, and I know it is true. But who can prove it?
To the disbelieving no one can prove that there was any treasure, any
gold or great wealth of jewels." He looked into Margaret's eyes. He
said plainly, "Freddy died unconvinced on that point."
Margaret understood. She had so often wished that Freddy could have
known all that had transpired since his death.
"I will spend all my money and wits on finding the wretch," Millicent
said humbly. "I will hunt this treasure to earth. If there were
jewels, they shall be found. I will never stop until I have traced
them, never! That will give me some interest in life--if you will let
me do it, that is to say."
"The jewels will all be cut by this time, the gold will be melted. No
one will be able to recognize them."
"You can't find the thief," Margaret said. "He died of smallpox--Mr.
Ireton heard that from the Government authorities. They set detectives
on his track, and discovered his whereabouts, but he was unconscious.
They think that he buried the treasure, that it is again lost to the
world. It is still waiting for you, Mike."
"I know that there were many more jewels where the crimson amethyst
came from," Michael said, "whether they are ever found again or not."
He was thinking of the words of his old friend in el-Azhar. If he came
out of the war alive, he might again hope to discover them.
"I can do something else," Millicent spoke pleadingly. "Say you will
let me! I am rich--my money is no good to me."
Michael looked at her for an explanation. His eyes were cold.
"I can spend some of my money in paying the expenses of the digging,
for excavating on the site. The war will put a stop to all excavating
work in Egypt and the Holy Land so far as England is concerned, but if
I give sufficient money, you can employ the best Egyptologists in
America, so that the work can go on this autumn. You will not have to
wait until the war is over before you find out all there is to be known
on the subject."
"The papyri will prove a great deal," Michael said; "they found
papyri." Millicent's words scarcely penetrated to his brain. He was
obsessed with the idea that the Egyptologists suspected that the
treasure was again buried. If it was, how exactly it all tallied with
the African's vision!
"I believe that there is very little excavating work to be done,"
Margaret said. "I have had so little time with Hadassah that I have
not even referred to the subject." She smiled, surprised at the fact
when it was brought before her. "But in a letter she told me that the
chambers were singularly perfect. They are cut in the virgin rock;
they are not extensive, but nothing had been destroyed. One of the
chambers was evidently intended for a royal treasury."
"In Flanders," Michael said, "life is very real." He turned to the
window as he spoke; Margaret's news had troubled him. "Germany has
made all our lives horribly real. What you have told me seems to
belong to another state of our existence." His eyes were far away from
either Margaret or Millicent; they were with his comrades in the
trenches. "When I was knee-deep in mud in the trenches I often thought
that our hut-home in the silent Valley was a dream, a beautiful dream,
one of those dreams we can never forget, however long we live, but only
a dream."
He drew himself up. "We have been brought back to firm earth. Our
apprenticeship on this side isn't finished, Meg. We aren't ready to
fully understand the things beyond. While we are on this earth, I
believe it is wiser to rest content with the things that are here." He
smiled. "Perhaps Freddy is right--it is wiser to walk on our two feet."
"Perhaps it is," Margaret said wistfully. "But thank God I trusted to
the progress of one person who occasionally walks on his head."
While Michael's back was turned to the door, and Margaret was looking
at him with eyes of sympathy, and with the knowledge in her heart that
he was living over again scenes and actions in Flanders which left her
far behind him, Millicent had slipped from the room. With her white
corset-boxes in her arms she fled downstairs and silently opened the
front door. As silently it shut behind her.
For a moment she paused, before descending the steps. London was there
in front of her, London with its luxuries and its sins, which not even
the strength of Germany or the sacrifice of young lives could
obliterate. The spring made no call to her; the sunshine mocked her
because of her empty world.
* * * * * *
When Michael and Margaret discovered that she was gone, they stood for
a little while locked in each other's arms. As Margaret raised her
head from Michael's breast, he bent his head and kissed her lips.
"Dearest," he said, "you and I can afford to forgive her, poor lonely
little soul!"
"I can forgive anybody anything, Mike."
"Even the Kaiser, beloved woman?"
Margaret shivered. "Don't let's think of him--not for eleven days, at
least."
"We shall be able to be sorry for even him some day," he said. His
confident tones delighted her, for his mention of the war had brought
the angel with the flaming sword into her Eden.
"You really think so, Mike? Your inner self feels it? Sometimes I
almost despair--they are so strong, so clever."
"I do believe it," he said. "You foolish woman, of course I believe
it. The day may be a long way off, but it is coming, just the same.
The triumph of light over darkness, Meg, the old, old fight--we shall
see the resurrection of Osiris and the defeat of Set all over again.
The sun of righteousness will stream over the world when the devil of
militarism is crushed for ever."
He kissed her again rapturously. Their time together was so short; it
left them little opportunity for lengthy talks on any subject. The way
in which Michael broke off in the middle of his sentences to make love
to her, and question her eagerly and impetuously, suggested the hosts
that disturbed his mind. He wanted to tell her all about the old
African's idea of the meaning of the war, and about his visualizing of
the treasure for the second time; but he wanted still more her lips and
her own exquisite assurances of her love for him, the eternal subject,
which neither age nor war can affect. The one important fact which
could not wait was that tomorrow she was to be his wife, and if he did
not let her return to her preparations, there was the possibility that
some hitch a might occur. So they went back to Hadassah and told her
all that had happened.
For everyone concerned the rest of that day flew on wings. Each hour
passed like a flash. Bed-time came, and Margaret scarcely seemed to
have achieved half or quarter of the things she had meant to do.
A telegram had arrived, in answer to hers, from the aunt with whom she
had lived as a child and young girl. The bride-elect had felt just a
little worried about her aunt; she had written her a letter which she
would receive on her wedding morning. In it Margaret had told her all
about her friendship with Michael while she was living with Freddy in
Egypt, and of Freddy's friendship with him, which was of a much longer
duration. Also, she took pains to assure her aunt that, as far as
pedigree was concerned, he had the blood of Irish kings in his veins.
CHAPTER IV
Their wedding-day was the sort of day which made Browning, when he
lived in Florence, sing:
"Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there. . . .
* * * *
"And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows . . ."
Margaret said the words to herself as the day greeted her when she
pulled up her blind in the morning.
London, even in war time, was inviting and charming for such as drove
about the West End in taxis, for they had not yet disappeared from the
highways and byways. The day was clean and fresh and sweet-smelling.
The promise of brilliant sunshine in the midday hours made the
fashionable streets near the Iretons' rooms very busy and gay.
Khaki-clad figures were everywhere; some were accompanied by
daintily-clad girls, proud of their soldier lovers; others were walking
with portly old gentlemen, their generous grandfathers or godfathers,
most probably; while many of them had given themselves over to their
mothers for the morning. Nor were they, as they would have been in the
days of peace, embarrassed by their affectionate grasp of their arms
and the unconcealed adoration and love.
* * * * * *
Things had happened with such bewildering rapidity that Margaret drove
through the streets to the church in which they were to be married in a
sort of open-eyed dream. She saw with extraordinary vividness all that
was going on around her, even to the faces of the boys and girls who
passed them in taxis; but she was incapable of concentrated thought.
The hurry and excitement in which she had lived for the last two days
left her breathless and vague.
She was driving with Michael Ireton, who was amazed at her outward
calm. He little knew that the bride whom he was to give away was
physically and nervously almost exhausted. The sudden end to the
strain which she had endured so long had produced a dreamlike phase of
almost semi-consciousness.
Margaret knew that Michael was ahead of her, in another taxi with
Hadassah. She also knew that they were driving to the church with the
outside pulpit which stands a little way back from the road in
Piccadilly. She had always felt a special attraction for the quiet
courtyard, right in the hurly-burly of one of the main arteries of
London. She knew that she would have to say her responses in the
marriage-service. Yet somehow she felt more like another person
looking on from a great distance at the doings of someone else. One
would feel the same remoteness if one was saying to oneself, "At this
very moment Margaret will be getting married, she will be on her way to
the church."
"Here we are," Michael Ireton said abruptly.
The taxi had stopped at the iron gate in the centre of the railings
which guarded the precincts of the church. He jumped out quickly and
Margaret followed him. In the porch of the church they stopped for a
moment, to make sure of the fact that Michael was waiting to receive
Margaret at the chancel steps. Then, still in a dream-state, Margaret
walked up the aisle of the church on Michael Ireton's arm. She was not
nervous; things were too unreal for her to be conscious of being
nervous.
A few idle Londoners, seeing that there was going to be a wedding, had
strayed into the church; otherwise it was empty. Michael thought it
rather dark and solemn.
Margaret was daintily dressed in white, a frock suitable for
travelling. Michael was still in his Tommy's uniform.
Nothing could have been simpler than the service which made them man
and wife, or more unlike what Margaret's aunts would have considered
suitable for their niece. It was a wedding after Michael's and
Margaret's own hearts, a solemn sacrament of two people, not a society
gathering of critical guests.
It was not until Michael took Margaret's hand in his, and pressed it
eagerly and firmly, with an air of happy possession, that Margaret came
to her full consciousness and to the significance of what she was
doing. She had repeated her vows after the clergyman clearly and
correctly; she had even said "I will" because her subconscious mind had
impelled her to say it. The importance of the words had escaped her.
It had been only her material body which stood by her lover's side.
Michael felt her air of aloofness, her distance. Her eyes had not met
his when he had sought them, eager to welcome her. She had walked up
the aisle and taken her place by his side like a spirit-woman, who was
a stranger to him.
When at last his strong hand clasped hers, she looked up. Their eyes
met. A long sigh travelled from Margaret's wakening heart to her lips.
Michael felt her emotion. He held her hand more possessingly, as he
said, very clearly:
"I, Michael Amory, take thee, Margaret Lampton, to be my wedded wife."
He tightened his grasp on her hand. Its dearness and magnetism
affected her. Her feeling of somnolence vanished. Things became real,
tremendously real and wonderful.
Michael was saying the words, "to love and to cherish, until death us
do part."
At the word "death" Margaret's throat tightened. Something seemed to
almost choke her. The words made her visualize the blood-soaked fields
of Flanders. Weak tears filled her eyes; the loudness of her heart's
beating made Michael's next vow, "according to God's holy ordinance,"
almost inaudible. The din of battle thundered in her brain. Death was
going to part them almost directly; it was standing behind them now; it
had been coming nearer and nearer for the last four months; it was only
waiting until Michael had left her, until she was no longer near him.
Like an avalanche crushing down upon her from a great height, the
terror of death swept over her. Just as a shot from a rifle, or the
vibration of a body of men marching under a precipice of loosened snow,
will bring it down and cover them, the words "until death us do part"
had overwhelmed Margaret.
Then a strange thing happened. As Michael said proudly and distinctly,
"And thereto I give thee my troth," Margaret saw that he was surrounded
by a brilliant light. He stood in the centre of long shafts of
sunshine; they played round his head like the rays of Aton. Her terror
of death vanished as swiftly as it had come. This was the light which
guarded Michael in battle. A super-elation dispersed the thought of
the brief married life which might be hers, that she might be stepping
into widowhood even while she repeated her vows.
Bewilderment made her forget her part in the ceremony. She felt, but
did not see the clergyman take her hand from Michael's. He separated
them for a moment and then put her hand on the top of Michael's. He
whispered something to her. Then she remembered her part, and said
slowly and clearly after him the same words which Michael had repeated.
The words "until death us do part" were said as she might have said
them in pre-war days.
After that she was free from all nervousness and all sense of
unreality. She saw Michael take the ring from the clergyman's fingers
and hold it in his own hand. She smiled to him happily, as she saw his
expression of relief and tenderness. In one moment more they would be
man and wife; no distance or grief could change that.
When they knelt together for the first time as man and wife, and
listened to the words of the beautiful prayer that they might "ever
remain in perfect love and peace together," Margaret's happiness made
her prayer a song of praise. If it was ordained that Michael was to be
spared to her, how simple and natural a thing it would be for ever to
remain in perfect love and peace together! Loving each other as they
did, that would not be one of their difficulties. It was so restful to
kneel side by side with Michael, listening to the gentle and solemn
words, that she would have liked the prayer to go on for a long time.
Her nervous condition made her apprehensive. Here, in the quiet
church, which lay right in the heart-beat of the city, there was a
divine sense of security.
Their heads were bent together; their arms were almost touching; their
heart-beats were in unison; their minds were one.
But the prayer was finished. Michael's hand had clasped hers again; he
was far more conscious of his part in the ceremony than she was of
hers. He held her hand as if it was his world, the kingdom he had come
into, while his eyes expressed his emotion and gratitude.
As the words "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put
asunder," and "I pronounce you man and wife," echoed through the
chancel, Michael Ireton and Hadassah gave a pent-up sigh of relief.
When the clergyman turned to the altar and read aloud the sixty-seventh
Psalm--Michael had requested it in preference to the hundred and
twenty-eighth, which is perhaps the more usual--Hadassah saw the bride
and bridegroom smile happily to each other. They smiled, because
Michael had often read the Psalm to Margaret and remarked on its
similarity to the prayers of Akhnaton.
"God be merciful unto us, and bless us: and show us the light of His
countenance, and be merciful unto us;
"That Thy way may be known upon earth: Thy saving health among all
nations.
"Let the people praise Thee, O God: yea, let all the people praise Thee.
"O let the nations rejoice and be glad: for Thou shalt judge the folk
righteously, and govern the nations upon earth.
"Let the people praise Thee, O God: yea, let all the people praise
Thee."
"Thou shalt govern the nations upon earth." That had been Akhnaton's
mission, to preach these words, to tell the people that God, and man's
understanding of His Love, must rule the world.
"Then shall the earth bring forth her increase: and God, even our own
God, shall give us His blessing."
Akhnaton had sung his Hymn of Praise in his temples and in the
pleasure-courts of his city in almost the very same words.
Confident that righteousness would triumph, that God's world-kingdom
had come, he suffered the wrath of his military commanders, who were
watching the breaking-up of his kingdom in far-off Syria.
* * * * * *
Two hours later the bride and the bridegroom, the two happiest people
in London, drove away from the Iretons' rooms in Clarges Street.
Hadassah and Michael Ireton watched them until the taxi was out of
sight. As they turned into the hall, with something very like tears in
their eyes--for even in the happiest marriages there is the quality of
tears--Michael put his arms round his wife and drew her to him. As she
looked up into his rugged face, his eyes more than his words said:
"We know how they feel, dearest! God bless them! Such happiness makes
one weep in these days."
Hadassah pressed her dark head against his coat-sleeve. He held her
closely; each day she was more precious in his sight.
"They are worthy of each other." His voice broke. "Really, when one
sees such happiness, one says to oneself, even if they have only a
fortnight together, it is a great deal, a wonderful thing."
Hadassah looked at her husband searchingly. "Somehow I've no fear for
Michael--have you?"
Michael Ireton thought before he answered. "No, I don't think I have."
"There is a certain something about some people that makes one either
afraid or not afraid for them--the men going to the Front, I mean. For
Michael Amory I haven't any fear. I can't explain why--it's not that
he will save himself by caution." She laughed.
"I know," her husband said. "Michael seems extraordinarily lucky. He
told me a few things last night, of the escapes which he daren't tell
Margaret, ghastly adventures. I'm afraid he's awfully rash. Like all
Irishmen, when his blood's up, he hasn't any conception of the danger
he's facing. He has the super-bravery of the Celt, and all his
recklessness."
"I just hope that as a married man he will keep that supernatural
nerve. A wife often destroys it."
"I know," Michael Ireton said. "One sees it so often--No wife, no
danger--a wife at home, more caution, less nerve."
Hadassah was silent. Her husband's arms were still round her. He
kissed her passionately.
"I feel like a bridegroom myself! Seeing Michael standing there
waiting for Margaret brought our wedding-day back to me." His eyes
caressed her.
"Did you notice the wonderful light that suddenly surrounded them just
as Michael took Margaret's hand in his when he said, 'And thereto I
give thee my troth'? The church had been rather dark and dreary up to
then; all at once the sun streamed right down on them. It was really
quite extraordinary, just as if an unseen hand had turned on the
limelight. It was almost uncanny."
"I noticed it," Michael said.
"The effect was startling. I wondered if Margaret noticed it--it
surely was a happy omen?"
Her husband smiled into her eyes. "I feel sure that Michael's
subconscious self would be saying the grand words of his beloved
Akhnaton:
"'Thou bindest them by Thy love.
Though Thou art afar, Thy rays are upon earth;
Though Thou art on high, Thy footprints are the day.'"